Drug of Choice
by Rianne Pond
Summary: John foolishly attempts to play mind games with Sherlock. "Come back to the flat. I have something I want to show you," he finally sputtered, spending only a moment to make meaningful eye-contact before turning and walking off. On one hand, this was incredibly intriguing.


**Hello Lovelies. It has been FAR too long since I've gifted you with some stories, so I figured that I'd finish off my summer with a few fun stories from my newest fandom obsessions. I hope you enjoy!**

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 **Drug of Choice: Cigarettes**

My scarf lied bundled on the ground in the least dignified way. I'd thrown it there in a fit of anger after discovering that John had hidden my cigarettes. I didn't need them. I didn't. I just didn't like him moving my things. _How would you like it if I'd just decided that I didn't like your chair blocking the view of the kitchen, John? What then?_

"Do I talk to him?" John whispered to Mrs. Hudson. Hand raised to his mouth, eyebrows knit together, lowered gaze. How sweet. He's concerned.

 _Should have thought of that before you took my cigarettes, John!_

"Well, I'm just going to put on the kettle. I'll let you boys sort this out." Mrs. Hudson made her timely escape down the dark stairwell after gesturing meaninglessly with her frail hands. John stood silently glowering at me from the living room.

"Sherlock," he pleaded. I lowered my fingers from my mouth, where they'd lied contemplatively, and set them into my lap. He took a step closer to me, hoping to defuse the tension, or something equally idiotic.

I quickly stood and swiped my scarf from the ground, tucking it into my coat pocket before brushing through the kitchen, past his watchful gaze and down the stairs, two at a time. Faintly, as I walked through the doorway, I could hear Mrs. Hudson singing along to the radio. I slammed the door behind me, taking care to adjust the door knocker before plodding down the street to the Polish deli down the way. A few long strides later I heard John's out-of-breath pleas.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock."

I turned on my heel, my coat fluttering in the wind, the fringe of my scarf jumping out of my pocket.

"What." Now that he had my attention, simple, little John couldn't formulate the words. He'd undoubtedly been rehearsing whatever it was he was going to say to me the whole way down the street, yet at this moment that we stood stock-still in the bustling London footpath, he said nothing.

"Come back to the flat. I have something I want to show you," he finally sputtered, spending only a moment to make meaningful eye-contact before turning and walking off. On one hand, this was incredibly intriguing. I enjoyed when John surprised me; it was frustrating that I couldn't deduce his little secrets, but mostly it was just interesting. However, on the other hand, I had a homeless underground member with more cigarettes than I could smoke that was just a block away, waiting at the Polish deli.

With a sigh of defeat, I strode after John, eventually catching up to the angry doctor's assured stride. His gait was much shorter than mine, but I slowed to keep pace all the way back to 221B. John's stride only changed as he shambled up the stairs; his psychosomatic limp flared up when he became distressed. I followed closely behind as he lead me back into our living room and sat on his chair. I purposely stood in the doorway, my patience waning.

"Surely you haven't brought me back up here for a chat, John," I quip. He sniffs quietly and motions to my squat leather armchair. I take a few cautious steps closer and stand before him, much too close. I am aware of the discomfort that this causes him. Elevated heartrate, tug at the upper lip, discontent sigh.

"Your violin," John says, his head nodding off towards my dusty violin case. I feel the left side of my face raise in confusion. _What are you playing at Watson?_

"John, this has gone on long enough. Tell me where the cigarettes are or I'm going to put all of your wool sweaters through the dryer."

"You're going to what?" John asks, leaning forward in his chair to view me better.

"Destroy your sweaters, John. Do keep up; you know how I hate to repeat myself," I drawl, my left hand reaching up to scratch the corner of my eye.

"Your violin, Sherlock. You haven't played in weeks," John repeats, his voice stressed. Voice raised an octave, veins on neck bulging, pursed lips.

"That's where you've hidden them?" I ask, already rifling through my violin case to find the carton of treasured cigarettes. I lift out my violin, the bow, all the pieces of sheet music, but I can't find the carton of solace anywhere.

"No," John says, his right hand reaching into the cushion of his chair to pull out a crushed box. I watch him with desire hot in my eyes. "Play a song, Sherlock."

"Bloody hell, John, give it here," I demand, my long fingers extended towards him.

"Play."

"But…"

"Sherlock," he derides.

 _John Hamish Watson. You prick._

I pick up my violin and watch his self-satisfied grin grow.

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